The Supernatural Games
by BBCGirl72
Summary: It's the 27th Hunger Games, and Dean Winchester of District 2 has been chosen to volunteer. When he goes through with it, he realises he must fight and win these Games to get home to Sam. But when he makes an unlikely alliance with a tribute from District 11, how will it all pan out? Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor the Hunger Games.


**Chapter 1: Reaping Day**

When I wake, there is an odd, warm, small lump cuddled up right against my chest. It is hidden under the thin grey blankets that keep me from freezing to death during the cold District 2 nights, but I recognise the mass by the mop of brown hair that adorns the small head. I smile and carefully peel away the flimsy sheets, revealing my sleeping thirteen-year-old brother. His hair is a mess, long chocolate-brown bangs falling over his closed eyelids, the odd tuft sticking up. Of course Sammy's here, curled up with me.

Today is the day of the reaping.

Today is the day I volunteer.

Careful not to wake my peacefully slumbering sibling, I sit up in my bed and stretch, my eyes flitting around the small stone room, deep in thought.

Many of the other districts believe that, since the Capitol favours District 2, we sit in the lap of luxury. But if you are a District 2 resident then you know damn well that is far from the truth.

Yes, we win the Games nearly every year, but that is mostly because of how intricately these reapings are planned. If many of the children that District 2's esteemed escort, Bela Talbot, actually drew from those bowls made their way into the Games, or even onto the podium, the world would be able to see how deprived most of District 2 is. But that is not the case. The stronger, talented or privileged of District 2 are offered a place at an academy that teaches everything from fire-starting to how to wield an ax when they reach age eleven. And I was always very strong and, honestly, I am a pretty action-oriented person.

When we reach age seventeen, pupils take tests to determine who would be the best candidate for the Games that year. I out-scored all others, even the eighteen-year-olds. I didn't mean to, honestly. I didn't want to have any chance of leaving my baby brother alone with our father. But, I did my best, and vwala, here I am, set up to volunteer for whichever poor boy they reap this year.

I do not remember the name of the girl who won the _'honour'_ of volunteering this year, but I do remember thinking that she wouldn't go through with it.

Maybe _I_ should just not volunteer, let the poor soul who is reaped go instead of me. But, dammit, I can't do that. Damn my morality.

Not to mention, Dad would get uncannily angry. He's been that way since Mum died, thirteen years ago now. She died in the stone quarries, a few weeks after birthing Sam, so Dad has never favoured my little brother, especially since he became obsessed with us being able to defend ourselves.

Sammy is of average height for his age, but he is scrawny and really skinny, and with that shaggy brown hair that falls into his hazel eyes, he looks even younger than his true age. He wouldn't last a second in the academy, much less the arena. But still...

I shake my head, my thoughts tumbling out of order as I feel a weak tug on the dingy sleeve of my sleep-shirt. I turn my head and am met with the largest set of hazel-brown eyes that I've ever seen, the chestnut bangs that usually hang in them pushed to the sides of a small face.

"Dean?" Sam whispers, like he might break the fragile moment if he speaks. He as well as I know that the reaping will take place in the town square a few mere hours from now; the sun has already almost finished its ascent from the east. It must be at least 11 AM. Only three more hours with my sweet baby brother.

"Hey, Sammy," I respond, ruffling his hair a bit, a small and hopefully convincing smile on my face, using the pet name he lets only me use. Sam hesitantly grins back.

I am sad to have to break this small moment, because Sammy has not smiled since he found out about my volunteering. But I know that I must.

I turn my head, hearing Dad rustling around in the kitchen, the mouth-watering smell of cooking food wafting into the itty bitty room Sam and I share. I look back to Sam, whose eyes are gleaming.

I crack a side-grin and pull myself off of the mattress that has moulded itself to me over my seventeen years of life, wash, and quickly dress in the reaping outfit I'd worn for the past three years: an old but clean white cotton shirt, a pair of worn black trousers, and a pair of black combat boots.

While glancing in the cracked mirror, smoothing my short light-brown hair back, I bend down and grab the final piece of my outfit from my pillowcase: a small golden-hued amulet that Sam had found somewhere when he was about five. He gave it to me that Christmas, which was the day that we stayed home from the school, quarries, and academy to wrap ourselves in blankets, stay by the fire, possibly exchange a few cheap gifts, and try not to freeze to death in the cold District 2 winter.

When I am finally satisfied with my appearance, I turn to my younger brother, who I heard start rustling around in his old oak dresser a few minutes ago.

Sam is now dressed in a clean grey t-shirt under an unbuttoned plaid over-shirt. He wears a pair of two-year-old black dress trousers, and a pair of dark grey sneakers Dad bought him as a treat for his birthday last year. He has raked a brush through his unruly locks, making the mop of brown look presentable. I nod, pleased, and give him a thumbs-up.

Sam grins and gestures for me to follow him, heading for the stone door that leads to the kitchen. I go willingly, hearing my bottomless pit of a stomach growl impatiently.

When we reach the kitchen, which has cracked linoleum floors unlike the rest of the stone house, we see Dad's back. His tall, strong frame is bent over the wood-burning stove. On the round table in the centre of the room are a plate of cheese rolls with steam rising from them, two glasses of goat's milk, a mug of some black, hot liquid that Dad occasionally gets from the market, despite its price, and a bowl of fruit.

This is a breakfast fit for a king here in District 2, despite the other Districts' beliefs. It's hard enough to get cheese, which only is produced in District 10 and immediately shipped to the Capitol, let alone the juicy fruit that comes all the way from District 11. Every once in a while, yes, the Capitol gives some of their precious luxuries to the higher-ups of District 2, but the majority of the population, who live in the slums like us, don't get a damned thing. God knows where Dad got the money to get all of this.

I know I won't be around long enough to question this though, so instead I sit down at the wooden table and pick up a cheese roll and shove it in my mouth, chomping down on it noisily.

Sam silently sits at the other side of the table and carefully chooses a small cheese roll, setting it on a plastic plate and adding some fruit to his dish before beginning in on it.

I roll my eyes before loading my plate up with six cheese rolls, three cantaloupe slices, and a bunch of grapes. Sam smirks into his cheese bun at me, taking small bites.

After a few minutes, Dad turns around, a prideful smile on his face. He grips the handle of a hot black pan with three pieces of bread inside it. In his other calloused hand, Dad holds a brown paper bag. He slides the delicious-smelling bread onto a paper plate and sets it in the middle of the sanded down wooden table. He raises an eyebrow as my green eyes and Sam's hazel ones latch onto the bag, a small hopeful tug in our stomachs. If we are right about what is in the bag, it will be a substance we have only ever had the pleasure of consuming once before, about eight years back, on New Year's Eve. It, too, was served on toasted bread. Dad slowly, teasingly reaches into the flimsy sack and pulls out the contents.

_Butter!_ I think, a rare smile aimed towards my father as his hands, scarred and calloused from his years of work in the quarries, come back out of the bag, a small, square-shaped, hardened chunk of white in it. He seems pleased with our response, the tiniest of smiles playing on the corners of his lips, and slices off about half of the cube for Sam and I. We then split that in half and spread it onto our respective pieces of warmed, browned bread. While we dig in hungrily, not having such a glorious meal in months, Dad loads up his own plate and takes a seat next to me. He's smiling at me whilst he eats, a proud smile.

A smile I haven't seen since I received those test results from the academy.

Dad leaves about an hour before Sam and I do, as he has a role to play in this reaping. He _is_ a quarry worker, and they are required to show up early to help set up the stage.

At one-thirty sharp, I finish folding down my little brother's green-and-red shirt collar and straighten it. I stand back, smiling ever so slightly. "There," I say, sighing deeply. "You ready, bud?"

Sammy slowly nods, then shakes his head, those chestnut brown bangs bouncing in his eyes. The hazel orbs begin to well with tears.

"Dean, I don't want you to go," he says. Then my strong, kind, yet fragile thirteen-year-old brother begins to cry. He buries his head in my shirt, broken sobs echoing in our small room.

I exhale and carefully place a hand on the back of Sam's head, rubbing soothing circles in his hair.

Honest to God, I'm a lot more scared of leaving Sammy here to let him watch his brother be slaughtered for the entertainment of the shallow, frilly Capitol people than getting killed in the treacherous Games myself. Plus, if I am being truly honest here, I'm worried of what may become of Sam. Of what Dad will try to carve him into.

Why am I even doing this? Because I am desperate for my father's pride, or because I want to save an innocent child? Or both? Why, why, why?

I sigh. Emotions have never been my strong suit, especially not my own. So, instead of dwelling on my jumbled mess of feelings, I shove them to the back of my mind and I calm my baby brother down enough that we are able to get out of the house and into the throngs of people heading towards the town's square.

Since everyone in District 2 knows that the reaping is rigged and it is usually known all around the district who the two 'lucky' kids are, the residents of 2 usually are calm and never worry about their own children. If your child is picked for the honour, you are proud. If your child is not, you are carefree and content in the knowledge you and your family is safe. So instead of treat the reaping day as a horrible loss, the people of District 2 treat it as a holiday.

Before Sam and I are pulled apart to be sorted into the appropriate age groups, oldest kids like me towards the front and younger kids like Sammy towards the back, I put on the most reassuring grin that I can and pull him into a brief hug. Then I release my baby brother and gently nudge him towards the loud group of teenagers.

He throws a final glance over his shoulder, a touch of fear in the hazel eyes, before being swallowed by the sheer mass of about two hundred thirteen-year-olds. I release the breath I now realise I've been holding and briefly rub a hand over my face before obediently following a classmate from the academy into the jumbled mass of sombre seventeen-year-olds.

And so the reaping proceeds. It is slow and boring at the beginning as the mayor of District 2 makes his long speech about the history of Panem. During this droning, hour-long bore-fest I allow my mind to race.

I go over my options in my head, deciding what I will do when it is time for the picking and volunteering. Depending on who is reaped, I could simply stand back and let them go to the Games. But they'd have to be eighteen and bigger than me. Adding to that, I can't even imagine how much more I would hate myself if that kid died because I didn't volunteer for them like I've been instructed to.

Dammit.

By the time I've reached the end of considering my options, the mayor has ceased his monotone droning and has stepped away from the microphone so Bela Talbot, a ridiculous woman with six inch burnt-orange fingernails and a neon green wig the size of a watermelon, can call the names.

"Hello my dears," Bela says, her Capitol accent weighing heavily on her words. "My, what a lovely place! Far better than that District 12." The Capitol woman flashes a smile, revealing that a bit of green lipstick has smeared on her pristine white teeth. A chortle echoes in the crowd.

Ah, yes. Bela always recounts her time spent escorting the tributes of District 12. Apparently, it is very embarrassing. I just find the whole thing sadistic.

"Today we have gathered to choose the brave young man and woman who will have the honour of competing in this year's Hunger Games." Another glint of green-smeared-white, "So, shall we begin?" The crowd falls silent as Bela taps her colourful thumb and forefinger together before reaching into the boys' bowl. You could hear a pin drop now. My eyes have shut, the war between volunteering and staying silent having waged up again.

"Samuel Winchester!"

My eyes snap open faster than humanly possible. No. No way this is happening. I catch sight of Sammy, blanch faced, standing in his group in shock. He seems to be waiting for something to happen. I am frozen. Why can't I move?

"Come on up, dearie," Bela calls, pseudo-smile plastered to her face.

The crunch of Sam's boots on gravel snaps me out of my initial shock. There's no questioning what I must do next. There's no _choice_ now. I leap from my spot in the crowd and into the centre of the stone pathway, yelling, "I volunteer as tribute!"

"No!" I hear Sam yell.

My emotions feel like magma, burning and bubbling beneath the surface, convection currents pulling them in different directions. So I shove them to the pit of my stomach and pull on my mask of compliance and indifference.

"Sam, go."

"But Dean—"

"Go."

I cannot afford to let anyone think I am weak, though, so I do not look back as Sam scurries off to find Dad, tears undoubtedly moistening his hazel eyes. I keep my emotions in check as I hop up the steps and walk, shoulders back, up to Bela.

"Ah, a volunteer!"

No one in the crowd looks surprised. Some seem relieved, even, that a young child will not be going into that arena. At least, not from District 2.

"How lovely. What is your name?" Bela tips the microphone towards me.

"Dean Winchester," I say, letting no emotion colour my voice. I can't be sentimental. I have to be the emotionless rock career tributes are. Because I _have_ to win this.

"Can't let little siblings hog all the glory, now can we?" Bela smiles at me.

The magma currents speed up, fire rippling through my veins, but I keep a tight grip on my mask of indifference.

Though, I grit through ground teeth, _"No, I suppose not."_

Bela seems to get the hint. She gives me a half-hearted, annoyed grin before taking a nice big step away from me.

Now that I can see into the crowd, my eyes instantly fall on my little brother and my father. Dad is smiling up proudly at me, but Sam is crying. His eyes are red and his nose is runny. Heat burns behind my eyes, threatening to release tears, so I tear my eyes away from my little family and stare out at a point in the distance. My eyes find the Nut, a big mountain that my dad mines in. Good enough.

"Congratulations, Dean. And now, onto the girls!" Bela says. Her orange fingernails disappear into the second glass bowl and she quickly plucks a slip out. A few clicks of nine inch high heels later, and she's pulling off the tape and reading the name.

"Jessica Moore."

My heart plummets to my stomach. Jessica Moore is a girl in Sam's year at school. Poor kid has the hots for her, and it is no secret she adores Sam. She's a sweet girl, too. Couldn't hurt a fly, even if she tried.

Damn. Where the hell is that Meg chick?

Jessica's blonde head bobs up above the others, curls flying as she turns her head side to side as if waiting for the volunteer to appear and save the day.

But the volunteer doesn't show. Just like I'd predicted.

Oh god.

It takes five whole minutes for Jessica to make her way to the stone blocks that act as steps. She ascends them shakily, turquoise dress bouncing up around her wobbly knees. Bela, smile never leaving her makeup-caked face, flourishes Jessica up to stand next to me.

Why do the Capitol people smile so damn much?

Jessica is visibly shaking at this point, tears forming in her blue eyes as she looks out over the crowd. I am tempted to comfort her, tell her it'll all be okay, but then I'd be lying.

_Keep on the mask, Dean._

"How lovely! District 2, please give a big round of applause for your tributes!" Bela says.

Jessica and I turn towards each other and we shake hands, which is customary for tributes when they are initially chosen. It is meant to show good sportsmanship and luck. My ass.

The crowd quickly begins to clap. A few enthusiastic hoots even meet my ears.

Despite my instincts screeching at me, I attempt a comforting squeeze of Jessica's small, delicate hand. It's the least I can do. The thirteen year old gives me a weak smile, a mere raising of the corners of her lips.

Then we are ushered into the Justice Building by Bela and the Peacekeepers. The heavy oak doors slam shut behind us with a thud of certainty.

I wonder if this will be the last time I'll ever glimpse my district's main square.

When I enter the main hall of the Justice Building, I barely have time to look around at the exquisite paintings and soft fabrics I've never even heard of before Peacekeepers quickly lead me to a small, plush room, far more fancy and well kept than any of the small shacks in the slums, and leave me there. I am well aware that this is meant to be the allotted amount of time where tributes say their farewells to loved ones. So where is my family?

I pace for so long that I begin to wonder if I will wear a hole into the soft grey carpet. Maybe, someday, another tribute will wait in this room and wonder who had made that indentation. And what happened to him. But then again, the Capitol has endless riches. They could easily replace a worn carpet.

Finally, after what seems like eternity, footsteps echo from outside and the wooden door I was shoved through opens. Sam and Dad enter.

"You have five minutes," the Peacekeeper says, before slamming the door again.

Immediately, Sam runs up to me and wraps his arms around my waist, burying his face in my cotton shirt. I return the embrace.

"Why did you do that?" Sam's words are muffled, but he pulls back and looks up at me. My little brother's eyes, usually so bright and filled with joy, are puffy and weighed down with grief that a boy of thirteen should not have to carry.

"Gotta keep my little brother safe, don't I?" I remark, trying to get a smile from him. Sam doesn't comply.

"Besides," I add, "I'm meant to volunteer this year. And don't worry, I'll come back. _Career_, yeah?" At this point, I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince: him or me. But I go for another smile. This time, the corners of Sammy's mouth tilt upwards.

"Promise?" he whispers.

"Promise," I pull Sam into another hug. "And I'll wear this necklace all the way through. It'll be my token." I pull out the brass amulet from under my shirt and show it to Sam. He smiles slightly again. I grin back and clap Sammy on the shoulder before rising from my crouched position. I cross the few feet that separates my father and I before extending a hand. At this point, my carefree smiles and pleasant side has melted away to show the determined warrior that Dad likes to see. He shakes my hand, using the advantage to pull me into a one-armed hug. Dad claps me on the back a few times before pulling back.

"I'll make you proud, Dad." I say. My father, a man of few words, nods happily at me, brown eyes shining.

"You already have."

In a sudden burst of emotion I am incapable of explaining, I pull my family in close to me and embrace them. Suddenly, the Peacekeepers burst through the doors again, clad in white uniforms.

"Time's up!" one with dark hair and almond shaped eyes exclaims, grabbing hold of Sam's skinny arm and tugging.

My little brother's pale brown eyes get impossibly wide with fear and he desperately attempts to fight back, just get a few more minutes with me, but then

Dad pulls on his sleeve and he complies, sending a frightful glance over his plaid-clad shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sammy. I'll see you soon, okay?"

The door closes with a loud click.


End file.
